


Goin' to California

by BlackCheckerRed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean havin' a bit of fun, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Series, Slow on the up-take Dean, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCheckerRed/pseuds/BlackCheckerRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vegas is fun, even sans dad & Sam, its grown up, fucked up fun, until it shows you things that didn't really wanna know about yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goin' to California

Dean’s so fuckin’ tired, not like, I just need a good night’s sleep tired but rather the’ I can’t understand why I keep regaining conscienceness’ tired.

Dean keeps wondering why he’s still alive.

He can’t understand why he keeps chugging down liquor and his liver absolutely refuses to give up on him.  
He’s confused as to why he keeps eating red meat like there’s a shortage of cows or cattle ranchers are some exotic creature in America and his ticker won’t even send him a fucking warning.

Supernatural bullshit aside, when it comes down to his own ability to indulge his whims like an honest American, zero.  
Not a god damned twinge, not high blood pressure, nothing.

Dean started smoking about six months ago but between the thought of Sam’s disgusted looks or his off-the-current-fucking-radar, of a father, coupled with his own inability to tolerate the stench of a Marlboro (he’d tried switching brands), that had died a quicker death then Dean was trying to finagle for himself.

In a seriously passive-aggressive, half-assed way.

Dean used to believe that he had a destiny, that there was a reason that he was still around.  
He used to believe that his presence was required, that he had purpose.  
He used to think that with all the angelic (and demonic) attention paid to his existence, that he mattered.

Somehow, he mattered.

Dean used to think that his purpose had been to carry his six month old brother out of a house fire.  
But said little brother had grown up and taken off, proving his ability to do his own thing, and didn’t need a big brother to show him how to tie his shoes, and what not.  
Dean was conversely proud of that and lonely, all at the same time.

Then Dean met Cassie, and she was smart and mean, tough and sweet, so unexpectedly tender hearted and ruthlessly practical by turns, that he occasionally considered her a slightly wonderful kind of crazy.  
But she did things with her mouth that he was pretty certain were illegal in some parts of the globe and he found himself hanging around for no reason, until she called him on his shit, so he started sabotaging her car.  
And that’s when Dean found her girliest weakness.  
Cassie could handle a blade, was useless at hand to hand but had declared that she had no sense of honor and that’s what allowed her to fight dirty and win.  
Dean found it strangely erotic that she could field strip any weapon he handed over (her daddy was a marine too) but she knew shit about cars.

Dean found his purpose in her form, a thing he’d thought he’d already known and never questioned until he found it, another call to fate, all unexpected in her woman’s frame.

Cassie was an intoxicating mixture of ribald and innocent, with an infectious smile and an oblique sense of humor, that turned Dean in circles and had the truth spilling from his mouth even while he was dreaming of locking her away in the suburbs.

And while Dean was oddly and ridiculously busy wondering what their kids would look like, imagining his daughter’s grace, (he couldn’t imagine a son’s because they looked like Sammy in his head for some reason) a mix of their smiles while he read bedtime stories) and quietly freaking out about that, Cassie gave proof of her own wisdom and walked away from him.  
Cassie was so final that he’d mourned her, almost as one dead.

Because that was exactly how she’d seemed to mourn him, like she’d already wiped her own slate clean and that had hurt, that had hurt bad.

And that was Dean and the first girl he’d ever loved.  
The first person that he cared about after Sam had left.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
And there he was again, an un-foundered speck of human flesh, drifting away from the winded passage of other people’s lives,  
So Dean started to live in that moment where he was the most important thing in other people’s worlds, he was the thing that stood between them and destruction, his flesh was stronger, his frame wasn’t afraid.

Only important while a grateful stranger’s knees were shaking, and Dean could never miss how the hands of others reached out and grasped their own cherished loved ones, the relief at having what and who was important in the tangible clutch of 'mine' and 'not letting you go'.

Hands that never touched Dean, that never swept eyes over his own starved, purposeless flesh.  
Not that he’d really wanted them to, not that he’d wanted that, for himself.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Dean was shaving, foam dripping off of his chin and enjoying the no fog mirror of his hotel room, really enjoying the fact that he was eight grand in the black.

He had stopped, briefly, to wink an eye at his own reflection and thought of what a bitch his brother was, never wanting to stop in Vegas, even when it was so fucking lucrative.

Dean’s slight smirk blew into a full-fledged grin when he caught sight of the reflection in the mirror behind him.  
Long tanned legs kicked at the covers, and for the life of him, Dean could not recall if that was a boy or a girl under those covers.  
Dean only knew that he was feeling generous enough to buy whatever had made him satisfied and cock sore, a good breakfast.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
His smile died a swift and merciless death when chocolate-y hair, impish dimples and what looked like Sam’s seventeen year old double seemed to sprout up out of the bed.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Dean left him on a sidewalk in front of a McDonalds’s with four one hundred dollar bills clutched in one fist and a confused expression on his face.

Dean couldn’t get over the fact that he’d recalled moments from the night before, through a hung over fog, of when he’d made the young man (legal but still!) beg and chant ‘ I need you’, as he’d fucked into him.

Dean sped away feeling ill.

He slowed the car and popped the door, leaned out and emptied the contents of his stomach. 

Rinsing his mouth and spitting the detritus on the roadside, Dean leaned back in the car and wiped a sleeve across his mouth.

And for some reason, as he sped away from the… whatever, lack of purpose that was his fathers certainty and his own wildly askew reactions to his own loneliness, he began to feel a little better, a little lighter.

The impala was headed for the golden state as though it had chosen to navigate its own course and Dean didn’t have to think to hard about the name floating around in the back of his mind.

Sam.


End file.
